Step into the Hurricane
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: "You keep coming back. I push you away and I compel you and I fucking kill you, and if you had any sense at all you'd stay the fuck away from me, but instead you're always around, following me like a lost little puppy dog begging for treats." Damon/Jeremy, coda to 4x03 The Rager.


**Step into the Hurricane**  
by Sandrine Shaw

When Damon comes home to the boarding house, Jeremy is already waiting for him in the living room, sitting on the couch in the dark with only his heartbeat and the soft sounds of his breathing filling the silence. There's something vaguely familiar about the scenario. It's a good thing that they're past the neck-snapping and the aborted staking, because Damon needs a drink and he'll be pissed if Jeremy has once again ruined all his alcohol by lacing it with vervain.

He takes a careful first sip anyway after he pours himself a scotch. The kid is watching him, his lips quirking, and Damon knows that he isn't the only one hit by the sense of _déjà-vu_. "I left my stake at home this time," Jeremy quips, making Damon snort.

"Who let you in?"

Jeremy offers a lopsided shrug, looking far too at home on Damon's couch and far too smug. "Not a vampire, remember? I don't need to be invited."

"Funny." Damon rolls his eyes. "Now piss off, it's been a long fucking day and I'm not in the mood to babysit you."

They may have gotten rid of the hunter, but something about the note he found in the guy's trailer makes Damon suspect that the reprieve won't last long and shit will be going down sooner rather than later. And in the middle of all this he just voluntarily signed on as Elena's mentor in vampirism, which in hindsight was a terrible idea and will probably blow up in his face. He's fairly sure this isn't what Ric's doctor girlfriend meant when she suggested that he'd fix things with Stefan and Elena. Well, fuck her, and fuck Saint Stefan, who can't get his ass out of his ass long enough to see that Elena needs more help that he can give her.

The very last thing Damon needs right now is Jeremy Gilbert and his inability to stay out of trouble for more than five seconds at a time. Kid should have stayed in Denver. Except even there he managed to attach himself at the hip to a lunatic Original with a baseball bat and a grudge. Given his penchant for trouble, it's a small miracle Jeremy has stayed alive long enough to make it to his sophomore year in high school.

Of course, Jeremy's own appraisal of the situation is vastly different, no surprise there. "Fuck you, I don't need a babysitter. I can hold my own. Or did you already forget that I helped you kill Evil Hunter Guy today?"

Damon frowns at him, downing his drink. "So what do you want? A medal? Clap on the shoulder? Am I supposed to hold your hand and tell you how well you've done? I think you're mistaking me for Stefan."

A hard look crosses Jeremy's face before his lips stretch into a smirk, and Damon _know s_he's going to say something that will push his buttons before the kid even opens his mouth. "I don't think so. It's pretty easy to tell you apart. Stefan's the one Elena is in love with. You're not."

In a flash, Jeremy's back is against the wall with Damon's hand around his throat, cutting off his air. Damon feels the kid's pulse racing under his fingers where they're digging into the skin, feels Jeremy's throat work as he gasps for air and as his face turns red.

"You think you're gonna feel better if you kill me?" he rasps. "Be my guest."

It might have been a taunt or a challenge, but something about the way Jeremy isn't struggling, the way he lets his head rest back against the wall and tries to even his breathing, tells Damon that it's actually an offer. Stupid and reckless and masochistic. The ring would bring him back, but it doesn't mean that Jeremy should go around offering his life – _his death _– up like that, casually like it's nothing.

Damon lets go as swiftly as if he'd touched vervain and takes a step back. "Don't be stupid."

Jeremy's hand comes up to touch his throat, gingerly probing at the bruised skin and wincing when he finds a spot that Damon's grip apparently left a little sore. He should be running, but he isn't even moving, and the steadiness with which he holds Damon's gaze is unnerving. "I was serious."

Damon grimaces. "I know. Which is where the 'stupid' part comes in."

A flash of hurt crosses Jeremy's face. Damon suddenly feels old and weary. Having to be the responsible one never suited him; it _sucks_and he's terrible at it. "If I had killed Alaric one less time, maybe he wouldn't have turned into that psycho vampire-hating Mr Hyde. So forgive me if I'm not quite willing to trust the powers of your magic ring and kill you on a whim just because you know which buttons to push. Go home, Jeremy!"

He waves him off and turns away, hoping that for once the kid will have the good sense to do as he's told. But of course, that would be too easy. Jeremy doesn't say anything, but the distinctive sound of footsteps squeaking on the wooden floor doesn't come either, the silence building between them only interrupted by the steady beat of the kid's heart.

Damon looks back at him over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Look, I get it. You lost your friend and—"

"Oh, for God's sake, stop right there. I don't want to hear your pop psychology analysis of my state of mind. _What do you want_?"

"For you to stop pushing everyone away. So you got hurt. Alaric died, and my sister chose Stefan. It sucks, but maybe it would suck less if you let someone else in." Jeremy holds Damon's gaze with a stupidly determined look on his face, the one that says he knows precisely that he's involving himself in things that aren't his business but he's going to do it anyway, and Damon feels his anger flare at the way Jeremy has apparently made it his life's mission to reach out to him when all he wants is to be left alone.

"Let me guess. By 'someone else', you mean 'you'." He's pretty sure that the derision in his tone is doing a fine job of making clear exactly what he thinks of that.

"I didn't say that," Jeremy shoots back too fast, the defensiveness in his voice belying his words. "Just, anyone. Stefan, Meredith, Caroline's mum, Matt. Take your pick. Anything would be better than wallowing alone in self-pity like this."

"What the fuck do you even care?"

The shrug he receives in response is awkward and forcibly nonchalant and very telling. Damon narrows his eyes at Jeremy, taking a few steps towards him again. Jeremy doesn't back away.

"You keep coming back. I push you away and I compel you and I fucking kill you, and if you had any sense at all you'd stay the fuck away from me, but instead you're always around, following me like a lost little puppy dog begging for treats."

Jeremy's throat works rapidly as he swallows, and up close, Damon can almost _smell_ his nervousness, can hear the rapid _thump-thump _of his heart like it's going to burst out of his chest.

"You just said it yourself. I'm just being stupid."

"How about the truth, Jer? You wanted my attention? Congratulations, you got it. Now tell me what exactly this is about. Do you have some hero complex where you want to save me, or are you just a glutton for punishment?"

For all that Jeremy has proved to be immune to Damon's more violent intimidating tactics, now he's visibly on edge and fidgety, not meeting Damon's eyes when he speaks. "I don't know, man. It's complicated. When you first came around, you were like... the cool older brother I never had. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to _be_you or just wanted— I liked hanging out with you, okay? And then I found out about vampires and stuff and you snapped my neck and I really tried to hate you for it, but... you were still you. And I like you. Even when you're a dick."

"Okay." Damon nods, letting the silence stretch until he's sure that Jeremy believes he's going to get away with his half-assed explanation before going for the proverbial jugular. "So it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you've got a massive hard-on for anyone who can snap you apart without breaking into a sweat?"

Jeremy winces as the words hit home, a furious blush rising on his cheeks, making Damon snort.

"Thought so."

For all his usual talkativeness and his inability to keep his mouth shut when Damon wants him to, now Jeremy seems to have nothing to say. At least he has the good sense not to deny it, nor does he make any move to stop Damon when he pushes him backwards and crowds him against the wall, less angrily than before but by no means gentler. Jeremy's pupils dilate, and his breath catches. Damon smiles an ugly, self-satisfied smile that Elena would hate. "You actually _like_it when I push you around, don't you, Jer?"

"Sometimes." Jeremy's tongue darts out to lick his lips, deliberately or maybe it's just a flicker of nervousness, and Damon feels his control, which has been stretched to its limits for a while, finally give way and snap. The thing about Jeremy is, he may be an annoying little shit who's more trouble than he's worth, but he gets under Damon's skin in a way few people do these days, in a way Caroline or Matt or even Bonnie and Rebecca never could.

"Luckily for you, I'm in an accommodating mood." He grabs hold of Jeremy's wrists and lifts them over the boy's head, and then, in a lightning-fast move, spins him around. Jeremy makes a small sound – half-surprised, half-pained – when his front hits the wall, and Damon steps closer until his body is plastered against Jeremy's back. He pushes his cock against Jeremy's ass, letting the kid feel that he's hard, and buries his head in the crook of Jeremy's neck where his blood pulsates rapidly under the skin.

Elena is going to flip when she finds out about this, and Alaric... Alaric just might find a way to rise from the death with the sole purpose of kicking Damon's ass. If Damon were a better person, he would stop. He'd compel their conversation away from Jeremy's memory and whatever twisted desire the boy has for Damon along with it, and he'd send him home with a clap on his shoulder and a casual 'good job today'. But Damon has tried to be that person and it hasn't worked for him, and he's tired of being someone he isn't just to please people who aren't ever going to thank him for his troubles.

Jeremy strains against him, pushing his body back against Damon's. "Come on. Please." He sounds half-delirious, high on adrenaline and endorphins. Damon isn't sure if he's asking to be bitten or fucked. Jeremy probably doesn't know himself, most likely doesn't even make a distinction, and there's something dark and fucked up about that, appealing to Damon's baser instincts. He grazes blunt teeth over Jeremy's pulse point, dragging a sharp gasp from the boy's lungs.

He waits until Jeremy is pleading again with both his body and his voice – broken little sounds and feverish promises and feeble attempts to twist around in Damon's grip – until he lets his fangs drop, sinking them deep into the tender flesh of Jeremy's neck.

Jeremy's head tips backwards, offering easier access to his throat, and his body goes slack. Damon's grip on Jeremy's wrists is probably the only thing keeping him upright at this point, stopping his legs from buckling and giving way underneath him.

The blood in Damon's mouth is warm and sweet, and Damon swallows lazily and without hurry. He isn't actually hungry, content just to ride out the wave of arousal from the feeding, the rich taste and smell of fresh human blood on his tongue and the warmth of a firm body against him. When he reaches down, undoing Jeremy's pants and slipping his hand inside, it doesn't surprise him to find Jeremy's cock hard and leaking already, pulsating hotly in his grip.

Jeremy moans something unintelligible and needy when Damon starts jacking him off, timing his strokes with the rhythm of his drinking.

He thinks about fucking Jeremy, pushing into the tight heat of his body and watching his face screw up as he takes Damon in, but they're both too far gone already and it would require time and effort. It doesn't seem to be worth stopping feeding long enough to get out of his pants. It's good like this, getting off just by rutting lazily against the boy's ass through two layers of clothing, the rough material of his jeans chafing in a way that's dancing along the edge of pain.

It doesn't take much to bring Jeremy off. Just a few firm strokes and he's spilling all over Damon's fingers, Damon's name on his lips.

Chasing his own release, Damon bites down hard, swallowing a mouthful of fresh blood, and the taste and smell of it is nearly overwhelming. He drags Jeremy's body roughly back against him, his groin grinding into Jeremy's backside, and he comes inside his pants – a sticky, lukewarm mess that's drying too quickly, leaving an uncomfortable sensation Damon would hate if he wasn't too blissed out to give a fuck.

When he pulls away and lets go, Jeremy sags against the wall. Damon catches him just in time before he falls.

"Whoa. You okay, Jer?"

There's a barely noticeable nod and Jeremy mutters something that, with a generous amount of interpretation, could have been "'m good, thanks", and Damon realizes that he might have taken a little too much blood. Jeremy is pale and barely conscious, but there's a hint of a smile curving his mouth, and Damon decides that if the kid is alert enough to feed him some bullshit line about being okay, he doesn't need to worry. He briefly presses his thumb against Jeremy's wrist, satisfied to find the pulse strong and steady.

Damon picks Jeremy up and dumps his unresponsive body on the couch.

It would probably have been kinder to drain him completely and let the ring fix the damage, but kindness isn't something Damon does, and even if it was, he hadn't been lying before: he doesn't exactly trust the ring to bring back Jeremy unscathed if Damon did indeed kill him.

As it is, it'll take Jeremy some time to recover from the blood loss, and the wound in his neck will hurt like a bitch for a couple of days. Maybe it'll be enough to make him stay away for good this time, but Damon doubts it. At this point, it's pretty obvious that everything that should drive Jeremy away only serves to pull him in further.

Damon pours himself another drink and looks at Jeremy's sleeping form. He's a mess: bloodied, the tell-tale pinkish beginnings of finger-shaped bruises around his wrists and his throat, clothes half-undone and stained with come and blood. It's a good look on him, Damon thinks, and decides that maybe it won't be a bad thing if Jeremy comes back for more.

End.


End file.
